


Dylan Loves that JackAss™

by Aria_Masterson1153



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Dylan's a Kindergarten Teacher, Jack's an NHL superstar who hates kids, M/M, McJesus plays shuffleboard with his grandma, everything's italicized bc Jack's a drama queen in his hatred for children, special appearance by Jack's fucking scooter thing bc it's too epic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-26 18:15:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14407740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Masterson1153/pseuds/Aria_Masterson1153
Summary: “You speak to your students with that mouth?” Jack smirks derisively as Dylan rolls his eyes.“No, but I somehow find it in me to blow you with it,” Dylan snarks back, holding the door open for Jack as he hobbles out on his crutches.





	Dylan Loves that JackAss™

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



>   
> puns=great  
>   
> I'll take your glory-hole awesomeness and raise you whatever the fuck this nonsense is. XD We will recover this ship at all costs! I hope you enjoy! <333  
>   
> Also, reasons for this title:  
>   
> 1\. I genuinely think I'm hilarious and great at puns (it's a problem, I'm working on it)  
>   
> 2\. [this](https://78.media.tumblr.com/428eef834cca6879f2028eba9d2b2215/tumblr_p1w6ga2E2y1v1s3oqo1_540.gif)  
> 

“No.”

“Jack, come on, you haven’t even heard-“

“No.” He repeats sullenly, adjusting his cast on the pillowed surface of the small table in their living room. “Whatever it is, I know I won’t like it.”  
  
“But please, I’m desperate,” Dylan pouts adorably as he clasps his hand around Jack’s flexed thigh. “My EA had a death in the family, and I won’t have any help in the classroom.”   
  
“Dyls,” he peeks over to meet Dylan’s predicted ridiculous groveling expression. “Come on, that’s not fair, you know I don’t like kids,” he says as he represses a shudder.   
  
“And yet, for some reason they love your miserable ass,” Dylan mutters in retribution before he remembers he’s still actually supposed to be  _begging_  at his feet. “Okay, but seriously, I have no one else I can ask, you’d be doing me a massive favour. And,” he adds, snapping his fingers in thought, “it would be good for you to get out of the house and take your mind off the injury,” he reasons, gesturing to Jack’s cast-covered ankle.   
  
“Do you not have anyone else that can do it? Like, what about Davo?” That overachieving, goody two shoes ass little shit would probably fall over himself at the prospect of having another band of little demons worship at the altar of McJesus.   
  
“You think he wasn’t the first person I called?” Dylan huffs in a frustrated tone, running his fingers through his floppy hair, mussing it up. In a subconscious gesture, Jack reaches across to smooth the hair back into its still wild, but slightly more manageable curl pattern.   
  
Dylan shoots him a small smile at their closeness.  
  
“He busy?” Jack prompts, referring to McJesus’ jam-packed schedule.   
  
“Yeah, he’s playing shuffleboard with his grandma again, or something equally as lame,” Dylan rolls his eyes at the thought.   
  
“Okay, but like I have this,” Jack tries, gesturing towards his boot.   
  
In response, Dylan raises his eyebrow. “Huh, I don’t recall it being that much of a problem last night when you literally rode me in a one-legged lunge just because I said you wouldn’t be able to,” he says challengingly.   
  
Jack can’t help the smirk that stretches his face in response. Yeah, he did that. And it was _fucking epic_.  
  
“Ugh, stop fucking praising yourself in your head, you egotistical dipshit,” Dylan whips a pillow at his head.   
  
“Seriously though, I thought strangers weren’t allowed in classrooms,” Jack reasons.   
  
“Jack, you’re legit the face of Sabres hockey. I don’t think you’re a  _stranger_. I’m pretty sure the faculty would shit themselves before they would even think of arresting you.” Dylan’s eyes pinch as he continues to think. “And, you being all wholesome and shit with the kids will be good PR for you, it’s honestly a win-win for everyone.”  
  
Jack huffs as he thinks it over. If he leaves Dylan out to dry tomorrow morning, then he’ll be in a shitty mood once he gets home, and then that would be shitty in turn for Jack. So, thinking preemptively, like he always does, he reasons that helping Dylan with those shit disturbers is probably his only option.   
  
Sighing over-dramatically, he concedes. “What’s in it for me?”   
  
Dylan beams as he realizes his victory. “Oh my god, thank you so much Jack,” he rushes out, tangling their fingers together in gratitude.   
  
“Hey, hey, I didn’t say that I was gonna do it.”   
  
But he and Dylan both know he pretty much did, and is only fighting it now for a matter of ego.  
  
“Um, I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow morning before we leave.”  
  
“I thought that you were trying to give me incentive, not make me shit myself,” Jack snorts.   
  
“Okay, that was like  _one_  time. You can’t seriously be still on this-“  
  
Jack cuts him off with a yawn. “Bored now, any other offers on the table?”   
  
“How about this then,” Dylan begins, frustration seeping into his tone at being interrupted. “You come, and I won’t break your sad little fucking scooter nonsense.” He gestures at the folded up contraption beside the couch.  
  
“You wouldn’t,” Jack deadpans.   
  
“I wouldn’t,” Dylan agrees petulantly. “But, I would stop with the chirps,” referring to the chirps that Jack resembled the psychotic tricycle-riding puppet from Saw.   
  
“I can handle a few weak chirps from you,” Jack laughs as he reaches over to muss with Dylan’s hair, smirking when Dylan automatically swats his hand away, expecting the attack.   
  
“I’ll...I’ll give you a massage every night for the rest of the week!” Dylan tries, grasping at straws.   
  
“As if you don’t already do that, you always want up on this,” he obscenely gesticulates down his prone body.   
  
Dylan’s cuddliness and constant need for touching is probably his worst kept secret, as he always finds excuses to touch Jack. Truthfully, Jack can’t find it within himself to complain though; someone has to take the brunt of PDA in their relationship.   
  
“Okay fine, I give up, what do want?” Dylan whines as he paws at Jack’s shoulder. 

Jack takes a moment to pretend he’s seriously pondering the question. “I think a kiss should probably suffice,” he sniffs haughtily.

“A kiss? God you’re even more of a dick when you’re decrepit.”

“You love me though,” Jack sing-songs as he shifts his weight to look over at Dylan, who’s curled into the arm of the couch.

“Somehow I do,” he mutters in a faux-moody voice, though Jack can see right through that shit. He knows he’s goddamn irresistible (ears and all.)

“You love my dick even more,” he smirks over at Dylan, chuckling at the faint blush that he can always garner from his boyfriend.

He isn’t even surprised when the second couch cushion is launched at his still-laughing form, the sting of the zipper against his face conveying just how done Dylan is with his shit.

 

\-----/-----

 

  
“Please,  _please_  tell me you’re not wearing that today.” Dylan huffs as he runs around the apartment, simultaneously pulling on a pair of socks as he adds a _splash_ of milk into his coffee, because otherwise he’ll get the shits. Jack made the mistake of making his coffee once. Never again.  
  
Jack glances down at his outfit; a sabres hockey dryfit t-shirt, and a pair of basketball shorts. Dylan looks sharp like he always does, with a crisp button down tucked into the navy slacks Jack loves because they make his ass look  _perfect_.  
  
He figures that since he’s not the teacher, he’s the help, he’s not required to dress up.   
  
“I look fucking awesome, what’s wrong with my outfit?” He questions with a furrowed brow.  
  
“Jack, you’re such a fucking shitshow, let’s go before you make our asses late.” Dylan brushes past him to hastily tie the laces to a pair of Jack’s dress shoes that he bought for himself, but have somehow ended up in Dylan’s possession.  
  
“You speak to your students with that mouth?” Jack smirks derisively as Dylan rolls his eyes.  
  
“No, but I somehow find it in me to blow you with it,” Dylan snarks back, holding the door open for Jack as he hobbles out on his crutches.   
  
Jack innocently leans in for a quick peck as he passes Dylan through the doorway, feeling Dylan’s pursed lips soften as Jack presses a smiling kiss to his lips. “Such a kiss ass,” Dylan murmurs softly against Jack, the gentle vibrations of the words soothing against the sensitive skin of his lips.

“Maybe, if you behave today,” Jack teases as he pushes off of Dylan to continue towards the elevator.

“You’d only be so lucky!” Dylan squawks from behind him, but Jack recognizes the underlying desire that will hold him accountable to his promise later on that night. 

 

\-----/-----

 

There’s colour…everywhere.

It’s as if a fucking unicorn exploded in the classroom, its rainbow coloured guts splattered across the walls of the room in the form of shitty finger paintings.

He eyes the ‘artwork’ in contempt from his vantage point, sandwiched in a bean bag that’s much too small for his 6”1.6 (because accuracy is important) frame. His eyes then lock on Dylan’s ass in those tight slacks on pure instinct, shifting as he walks around the classroom, placing a sheet of construction paper on each desk.

He much prefers this view to the unicorn guts.

And even when Dylan turns around to give him shit, Jack’s head is still shamelessly tilted to the side as he gazes at the ass he knows feels as good as it looks.

“Are you gonna help me at all, or just uselessly keep gawking at my ass?” Dylan huffs as he resumes his task.

“I’m enjoying the view just fine from here,” Jack drawls unabashedly.

Dylan snorts loudly in response. “Yeah, I’m sure you are.” He wiggles his ass a little though, just for show, and Jack can’t help his snicker.

Then Jack’s phone buzzes with his normal alarm, the one he uses when he’s not waking up at ass o’clock to babysit a horde of demon spawn. With a sigh he shuts off the alarm, unhappily remembering his purpose here today. Ugh. “What time are the brats getting here again?”

“My _students_ are going to start to arrive in about 10 minutes. Speaking of which,” Dylan says, wagging a finger seriously. “I’m not letting you get me fired, so you better be the biggest fucking ray of sunshine these kids have ever seen. I’m not about to become some fucking trophy wife,” Dylan’s eyes narrow disdainfully at the thought.

Jack attempts to contain his sniggering as he opens his mouth to respond. “But why won’t you let me take care of you, spoil you?” He teases, because he knows it’s a sore-spot for Dylan, but also because he kind of wishes he could.

“Because Dylan Strome is baller as fuck, and doesn’t need no NHL playing sugar-daddies.”

“And that time you called me daddy-“

“Shut the fuck up,” Dylan hisses, flushing scarlet at the memory. “That’s different.”

“Thought so,” Jack says with a triumphant smirk.

“Seriously though, you’re going to be fine, just be the amazing man I know you are,” Dylan guilt-trips like the shit he is, knowing how effective they are with Jack.

“I’ll try my best,” Jack says, resigned.

“And that’s all I can ask for,” Dylan smiles back at him reassuringly.

When Dylan returns to reading over his syllabus for the day, Jack thinks to himself. He deals with immature as fuck hockey players on the regular, and kids can’t be that much different, can they?

He’s got this in the bag.

 

\-----/-----

 

He  _so_  doesn’t have this in the bag. At this point, the bag’s been filled with dog shit, set on fire and thrown out the window. From his viewpoint, tucked inside the classroom, hiding from the kids and their parents like the NHL superstar he is, everything’s already looking like it’s going to shit.

He’s stuck at one of the two rows of desks, with his crutches just out of his reach because Dylan’s an asshole and knew he would try to escape once he turned his back. He isn’t yet privy to the visual experience, but he can picture it well enough based on the muffled sobbing he can hear echo through the empty classroom.

And unlike his teammates, a quick slash to the back of their knees with his stick won’t correct any misbehaviour.

He begins to panic once he hears the high-pitched goodbyes from child to parent, and the intensifying of the sobbing in the background. They’re coming, and he can only imagine the horrified expression he is uncontrollably sporting. His stomach is twisting and flopping fiercely, and he wasn’t even this nervous for the fucking  _draft._

He hates kids. He really does.

He watches as they all pile into the classroom, their backs to him as they unceremoniously dump their belongings into their stalls. He quickly grabs a piece of construction paper and some…is that uncooked macaroni?

Either way, he piles all of the shit in front of him to look busy, and more importantly,  _unapproachable_. He knows kids can smell fear like sharks can smell blood, and he’s not about to fuck up in front of them.

He fiddles aimlessly with the dried pasta, and can _hear_  when they notice him sitting in the corner like the loser he is.

“Who’s that Mr. Stro?” Multiple kids question Dylan, and Jack’s lips quirk, eyebrows raising at the name. Mr. Stro?

However, Dylan’s busy consoling one little brat who’s too busy balling his eyes out to even notice him. He’s rubbing the boy’s back, and whispering encouraging statements into his ear, while the rest of his classmates are engaged in the staring match that Jack has unknowingly found himself in. He’s sizing them up, and they’re looking at him with clear interest.

Yet, the crying boy is still a young little demon with the attention span of a goldfish. Except when he notices Jack, he doesn’t stare in wonder like the rest of his classmates.

Through hiccupping breaths, the boy shouts out. “His ears!” He points at Jack’s ears and begins to wail in earnest, as Jack tries not to look  _too_  insulted.

Sure, his ears stick out a bit and are noticeable, but to fucking cry over them? Where’s the kid’s backbone?

Dylan is trying to contain his smirk as he meets his eyes, and Jack is sure that he put these little shits up to it.

When Dylan finally calms down the snot-doused kid, he walks over to Jack. The other kids haven’t moved an inch towards him, but they also haven’t stopped staring in curiosity. He figures the displeasure written all over his face and his shuttered body language have effectively conveyed the ‘be gone foul demon’ memo that he is unfortunately not permitted to address aloud.

“All right guys, come gather ‘round,” Dylan speaks animatedly as he gestures for the kids to (unfortunately) come closer. “This is Mr. Eichel, he’s come because he heard you guys are all so well behaved, and he heard today is craft day!” He brandishes Jack as he fits his hand on the back of the undersized plastic chair he managed to squeeze his hockey ass into. The gentle heat from his hand is comforting on the middle of Jack’s back, and he leans into Dylan’s hand subtly.

The kids all cheer loudly at the prospect of making a mess of themselves and the classroom, and Jack flinches at the sheer noise of them.

“Now let’s all say ‘good morning Mr. Ei-chel!’” Dylan sounds his last name slowly so the distracted children will get it right on the first try. But, seriously, it’s a two syllable last name, even kindergartners should get it.

“Good morning Mr. Eichel!” The kids cheer enthusiastically, with varied pronunciations of his last name indicating who is paying attention and who is zoning out already. He only barely succeeds in containing his eye roll.

There’s a beat of silence, where Jack grimaces a painfully awkward smile at the earnestly chipper expressions of the children. He then feels a rough thump into the middle of his back, where Dylan’s hand was resting. “Good morning,” he wheezes after the painful prompt.

The response is immediate, the children smiling as they rush towards his table, fighting over who gets to sit with him. He wishes the novelty of someone new wasn’t so attractive to these over excitable little monsters.

He can’t believe he let Dylan talk him into doing this. The boyfriend points he receives from this should be infinite.

He flickers over to Dylan, and there must be something in his eyes, a vague wisp of pure terror, because Dylan looks down at him with a soft smile, more amused than anything. “No one wants to sit with me today?” He addresses the mob, pouting excessively at the prospect of all of the kids sitting with Jack.

Half of the mob promptly changes the trajectory of their toddling over to Dylan’s designated table and Jack sighs in relief. The rest of his group is milling about in front of his table; but a lone wolf waddles up to the head of the table where Jack is sitting and sits down to his left. He stares at her, not willing to be the first to break the ice.

“You have pretty hair!” The Sudanese girl begins, gesturing to the curly mop on his head that desperately needs a cut.

He stares at her, seeking to understand her motives. “Um, thanks,” he tacks on awkwardly, feeling more uncomfortable here than in any post-game interview.

“You’re welcome, can I braid it?” She questions, hands twisting in excitement.

“ _No_ ,” he says emphatically, before cringing and looking over to see if his statement causes any tears.

“Okay,” she shrugs easily and it disarms him more than it would if she were to start sobbing. “Are you Mr. Stro’s girlfriend?” She questions sincerely, jumping from one topic to another as if Jack’s brain isn’t already close to shutting down in self-defense.

His eyes widen in disbelief, and he’s seriously considering crawling across the floor to get to those damned crutches near the door of the classroom. “Um, I’m a guy?” He doesn’t mean to phrase it as a question, because he’s  _very_  sure he’s a guy, but he can’t seem to shake the disbelief that is influencing his tone.

The girl nods at his statement as if she was expecting his answer all along. “But you love him, right?” She spots his hesitation, and beams in response. “You  _do_! You’re so lucky, Mr. Stro is awesome!”

He watches her in bewilderment, thankful when Dylan calls everyone to get a seat and pay attention to the demo. Apparently today they’re making macaroni paintings.

Exactly what he had hoped for. Not.

Dylan demos how to use the glue sticks to stick the pieces of macaroni to the construction paper, and Jack peers in annoyance at the goody-two-shoes at either table that mimic Dylan’s movements to a tee. Ugh. He’s not even going to bother talking to them.

“And to have a little friendly competition, we’re going to hang the best painting from each group on the wall of fame,” Dylan gestures to a colourfully decorated wall with various pictures and words on it, “so let’s all have fun and get to decorating!” Dylan says enthusiastically as he sits down with his group, but not before giving Jack a subtle wink, meaning that it’s  _on_.

And, Jack’s momma ain’t raised no bitch, he’s gonna fucking kill this shit.

Surveying his group, and all of the wide-eyed stares being sent his way, he considers his options. He predicts his guaranteed path to winning needs to involve an easy-going kid that will paint exactly what Jack wants them to, so he can win the competition.

Judging by the amount of goody-two-shoes in his group, they will all want to prove themselves to him and Dylan by being  _independent_  and come up with their own ideas or some other stupid shit like that. They may as well be not even sitting at his table, for all Jack cares about their paintings.

And then he looks to his left, meeting the wonder-filled eyes of the girl, and has an idea.

“Well, get to it,” he prompts to his group, gesturing to the sheets of construction paper. The kids all jump into action, frantically arming themselves with glue sticks to gain Jack’s favour.

Ignoring them, he instead turns to the girl. “Okay kid, so here’s the plan-“

“My name’s Bashira!” The girl cuts him off mid-sentence.

“Bashira,” he tests out. “Cool name.”

“Thanks Mr. Eichs, you have a cool name too!” 

Clearly any name more than one syllable is a lost cause with these dolts. “It’s Mr. Eichel,” he power-trips.

“Okay, Mr. Eichs!” She echoes cordially, completely unfazed, and the sincerity of it infuriates him.

“Okay whatever, we have bigger things to focus on,” he snaps as he lays out the details of his master painting, with Bashira nodding along enthusiastically at his ideas.

They begin the painting, with Jack hovering initially to make sure she doesn’t fuck his idea to all hell. He’s completely neglecting the other kids, but they seem to be enjoying themselves anyways, chattering amongst themselves.

Or, at least that’s what Jack tells himself. 

When he can see the slightly warbled outline of his vision, he backs off, leaving Bashira to fill in the rest under his occasionally watchful eye. He begins a painting of his own, a cheesy ‘family portrait’ of him and Dylan, with the epic stick figures to sell the shittiness of it all. He knows Dylan’s still going to love it though.

He glances over at Bashira’s work, and can see her zoning out, eyes unblinking as she stares out the window. They don’t have time for day-dreaming.

“Bashira,” he prompts, snapping his fingers in front of her. “Focus, we have a competition to win.”

“Sorry Mr. Eichs,” she says solemnly, returning to the painting. “What part do I do now?”

He leans over to her to exemplify exactly what is the vision in his mind, tracing with his finger over the construction paper. Bashira giggles at the seriousness of his tone, and he’s legit two seconds away from dropping her ass and picking a new prodigy.

Except when he looks up, he sees Dylan, who’s making his rounds around the classroom. He has a soft smile on his face, and it’s one that Jack knows well. It’s a combination of love and fondness, and he knows that Dylan’s misinterpreted his nit-picking with Bashira for a genuine connection with one of the kids. And you know what? Bashira may have not outlived her usefulness after all.

Helpless to the softness in Dylan’s smile, he grins back, still leaning into Bashira.

He knows he just got the boyfriend points multiplier, and wonders what his prize will be.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, when Dylan comes back with his crutches tucked under his arm. He carefully leans them on the desk beside Jack, and smiles again. “See? You’re a natural,” he sounds proud, the same way when Jack scores a beautiful goal. He’s unashamed to admit that it’s one of his favourite things.

Jack shrugs helplessly, looking back down at Bashira who’s watching their reaction intently, cataloging their reactions to one another.

He grabs his crutches, pulling them closer to him before Dylan changes his mind. Dylan’s awarded him with his freedom, now that he knows Jack won’t make a run for it any chance he gets. It’s a nice prize, all things considering. Dylan squeezes his shoulder lightly before walking around to preen over the work of the children Jack’s obviously paid no attention to at his table.

Glancing back at Bashira, he realizes how much of a solid she’s done him. He holds out his closed fist, and she stares at it in confusion. “What do I do with it?”

Jack huffs and rolls his eyes, but it’s now filled with slightly more fondness than the blatant annoyance when he first met her. “You bump it,” he says as he gently closes her hand into a fist and knocks it against his.

They both diligently return to their paintings and work silently in the chaos of the classroom. He’s beginning to like his choice of prodigy more and more.

Just as he’s working on the outline of the waves at the beach he and Dylan are at in the painting, he can hear frantic breathing to his right. “Mr. Eichs?”

Jack sighs exaggeratedly. “Mr. Eichel,” Jack says in a monotone, not looking up from the careful arrangement of his macaroni.

“Mr. Eichel?” The boy whines louder to get his attention.

“What?” He says in a clipped tone as he raises his eyes from his masterpiece. For the delay it’s caused in his crafting of his painting, this distraction better be worth it.

“Um, I kind of stuck my fingers together with glue, I was trying to be careful; honest, but I think my hand slipped, I’m sorry-“ the boy rambles as he shows Jack the sticky mess that’s holding his fingers together.

“Ugh, stop talking for like two seconds,” Jack grumbles, rubbing his temples. “Go talk to Mr. Stro,” he dismisses him, gesturing over his shoulder to where Dylan is helping a girl colour in her painting. 

“But- but you’re our leader,” the boy pouts, and Jack nearly scoffs when he realizes the boy is two steps away from crying.

“Fine, fine, let’s go to the washroom,” he heaves a sigh as he begins the careful process of standing to his feet, while keeping the weight off his casted ankle. He can see Dylan move towards him out of the corner of his eye.

“Everything okay over here?” Dylan questions cheerfully, but Jack can still detect the undercurrent of worry in his tone.

“Yeah, um,” he flounders as he tries to remember the name of the kid in front of him, “ _this one_  got some glue on his fingers, we’re gonna go wash it off.”

Jack can see the smile that Dylan is trying to fight off at the fact he has no fucking clue what this kid’s name is.

“You go do that,” Dylan says, amused as all hell.

Jack looks back at Bashira. “Keep working while I’m gone, okay?” He’s serious in his approach, and is rewarded when she matches his dedication with a nod. “And keep the rest of them in line,” he says, gesturing at the rest of the idiots in their group that are currently throwing pieces of macaroni at each other across the desks. 

“I got it Mr. Eichs,” Bashira says as she reaches out with a clasped fist.

Jack understands what she’s going for immediately, and lightly chuckles as he returns the fistbump.

He meets Dylan’s questioning raised brows, and colours slightly in response. He knows what Dylan’s thinking; ‘ _holy shit did you just teach one of my students how to fucking fistbump_ ,’ but he looks way too amused to be pissed, so Jack will take it as a solid checkmark in the ‘W’ column.

He and shithead hobble over to the washroom, where he makes quick work of the mess of glue between his fingers, hoisting him onto the step stool in front of the sink. Shithead apologizes profusely, but Jack can only really acknowledge him with a disdainful nod.

He knows Bashira wouldn’t do something as fucking dumb as this.

When they return, Bashira’s got the majority of the frame completed, but her movements are slower, more sluggish. She blinks at him slowly when he sits back down in his uncomfortable seat, and he’s about to question what’s up with her, but Dylan beats him to it, announcing from the front of the classroom.

“Alright class!” He claps his hands together. “It’s nearly nap time, but let’s make everything clean so we can get right back to the fun after our naps!”

The kids cheer again, hanging off of Dylan’s every word, and Jack’s only starting to realize the influence he has over this group of scoundrels. No wonder they’re all such idiots.

“Nap time,” Bashira murmurs dreamily as she begins to clean up the slight mess she’s created.

Nap time? Fuck yeah, Jack’s  _exhausted_.

As the little shits clean, he sneaks into the corner of the classroom, and grabs his beloved beanbag, it’s awkward to drag with his crutches, but he makes it work. None of those little demons are going to steal his bed, he’ll make sure of it.

The kids must be exhausted too, because they actually do as they’re told and clean in record time. Within five minutes, they’re all settled on the floor, Jack in his beanbag and the other kids on sleeping matts listening to Dylan read a story. By the time he’s halfway through the story, all of the kids are knocked out, only leaving Jack and Dylan awake.

“I think they’re all out cold, thank god,” Jack breathes, so as not to disturb the kids. Not because he gives a shit about waking them up, only that he’ll have to deal with the aftermath. It’s the first time the room’s been completely silent for the first time in _hours_ , and Jack can’t completely believe it. “How can something so evil be so…peaceful?” He questions as he takes in their silent, still forms.

Dylan rolls his eyes fondly and moves over to the secluded location of Jack’s beanbag. “We probably have about an hour before they wake up,” Dylan whispers to him, smoothly twining their fingers together.

“Dope,” Jack says, relieved, as he turns to cuddle into the beanbag, his hand hanging off the beanbag, loosely linked with Dylan’s. “Wake me up before they do,” he softly commands as a yawn escapes him.

“What? You’re not gonna stay awake with me?” Dylan pouts.

Of course he’s not, he’s fucking exhausted, both mentally and physically. If he doesn’t nap, he may end up taking the stick out after all. (Not really, but still.) “Sucks to suck my dude, I need my beauty sleep.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a fucking diva,” Dylan whispers barely above a breath, in case any of the deceptive little demons are still awake.

Jack grins sleepily at him as he closes his eyes, feeling Dylan finger through his curls, the gesture soothing in a way that was sorely lacking the entire day. He feels a warm, dry kiss pressed into his cheek, and he can’t help the pleased hum that resonates within him. “Love you,” he murmurs to Dylan.

“Love  _you_ ,” is the assured response that he hears as he slips into the peaceful darkness of sleep.

 

\-----/-----

 

He wakes up of his own accord, his body buzzing back online as he takes stock of his body. The dull ache of his ankle, and the new kink in his neck as a result of his horrible sleeping position. When he opens his eyes he realizes the class is still huddled together in the middle of the floor, sound asleep on their matts.

Dylan’s eyes raise from the book he’s reading to do a cursory glance of the class, meeting Jack’s stare. He wiggles his fingers in a sarcastic wave, and Jack immediately gives him the finger for his troubles. He watches with a smirk as Dylan tries to smother a laugh with the palm of his hand. Then, he points down to the ground on his left side and Jack’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, until he realizes Dylan’s referring to his own left side.

Sure enough, he looks down and spies a small body curled up on a sleeping matt beside his beanbag. Bashira.

His first thought is that if he turned over in his sleep off of the beanbag, he could have killed her. His wide eyes jerk back to Dylan, and he frantically gestures at the scene, mouthing  _what the fuck?_  over to Dylan.

Dylan purses his lips again in an attempt to control his laughter, and instead beckons him over.

As carefully as he can manage, he limps over to Dylan. “Have fun watching me sleep, Edward?” He whispers sarcastically, leaning into Dylan.

“Fuck off, as if you’d be Bella in any dimension,” Dylan whispers back humorously.

Jack chuckles quietly as he looks back to his beanbag. “What the fuck happened?”

“It was really cute actually,” Dylan begins, setting his book down on the desk. “She woke up in the middle of the nap, and came over to me, asking if she could keep you company because you looked lonely. Little does she know you don’t shut the fuck up in your sleep anyways, so you were isolated for a reason,” Dylan laughs Jack’s pinched expression. “She wanted my permission, because you’re my girlfriend, apparently.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I already went through this with her.”

“Still though, looks like you made a friend,” Dylan’s are shining, as if Jack was a member of the kindergarten class as well, and was making friends for the first time.

“Well… she’s not a total dumbass. Us normal people have to stick together.”

“Mhm-hm,” Dylan hums, as if he knows something Jack doesn’t.

 

\-----/------

 

The little demons seem to all rise at the same time, demonstrating the careful routine that Dylan had set up for them. It was also around the same time Jack was  _just_  getting used to the lack of screaming and laughter. Peering at the kids from his position leaned into Dylan’s arm as he continues reading, Jack scowls.

Lifting his head off of Dylan’s shoulder, he openly glares at the children as they look around, attempting to regain their bearings.

“Lighten up, you’ll have me to yourself in two hours, you miserable little shit,” Dylan murmurs to him, not at all attempting to conceal the amusement in his voice.

“Fuck off, as if it’s not complete silence that I’m looking forward to after this,” Jack grumbles, leveling Dylan with a glare.

Raising himself out of his seat, Dylan only laughs at him and shakes his head in a way that obviously indicates he knows Jack’s speaking complete bullshit. He wrangles the kids together in no time, and Jack finds himself back at the desk in the same position as the morning, glaring at the kids while they stare back at him blankly. However, now there’s a tinge of fear in their eyes, as if they know not to fuck with him right now.

Good. It only took 5 hours to accomplish, but…good.

Armed with their juice boxes, they stare at Jack for further instruction.

“Don’t make a mess, and finish your paintings,” he mumbles as he shoos them away.

They nod diligently, and return to their paintings, their conversations interrupted by loud, obnoxious slurping of their juice boxes.

“You okay Mr. Eichs?” Bashira questions from his left as she continues to work on their painting.

“Of course, why?” He mumbles distractedly as he finishes the smiling sun in the top left corner of his page.

“I don’t know…Mr. Stro laughed when I called you his girlfriend,” she shrugs innocently.

 _Well that’s just because Mr. Stro is a fucking douche_ , is what he wishes he could say.

Instead, he just laughs softly, not even bothering to correct her. “Everything’s fine with me and Mr. Stro.”

“Good, 'cause I like you,” she whispers as she sticks another piece of macaroni onto her page.

“I know,” because for some reason that’s escaping him, she actually likes him. Shocker.

“Y’know, Mr. Stro is lucky to have you,” she says as she traces over the now-dried glue trails on her construction paper.

And he doesn’t say  _damn straight_ , but it’s definitely a near thing.

“Mhm-hm,” he huffs instead, rearranging his loose pile of macaroni.

“And you, you’re lucky to have Mr. Stro.”

Her statement gives him pause, and his hands cease their actions. “Yeah, I am,” his voice much softer than he would prefer; unable to keep his eyes from flickering to Dylan, who’s leaning down to compliment one of the kids on his (admittedly really shitty) painting.

Bashira just nods in response, clearing expecting his comment. “Is there more I should do?” She questions as she shows him the final product of his vision, a bit messy but not too worse for wear. Consistent with Jack’s vision, it’s a hockey stick shooting a puck (because really, what else.) The stick even says ‘CCM,’ even though admittedly Jack’s more of a bauer guy. He reasons that if Bashira had trouble pronouncing his two syllable last name, trying to spell ‘Bauer’ would be way out of the realm of possibilities.

“It looks awesome,” he says honestly as he holds his hand for a fistbump, watching as Bashira beams in response. And because he’s feeling particularly generous, he adds “add whatever you want to it…just keep it away from the stick and the puck.”

“Okay Mr. Eichs!” She grins radiantly as she sets back to work.

He lays the last piece of macaroni on his page, sitting back to look at his masterpiece proudly. It’s a scene of him and Dylan holding hands at the beach (even though they only have three fingers each…whatever, creative expression.) Like he even made waves with macaroni, that’s how baller his painting is.

Dylan’s going to _love_  it.

Once again entrusting the safety of the rest of his band of idiots with Bashira, he limps over to Dylan and proudly hands him the painting. “Here.”

Dylan looks down at the painting, and his face does something funny. When he finally raises his eyes, he’s smirking, and Jack doesn’t know what to make of it. “This is so precious; did one of the kids in your group make it?”

Jack’s face drops in outrage, furthering the smirk on his boyfriend’s face. As fucking  _if_. “I made it, you fucking tool,” he says quietly, lowering his voice so the kids can’t hear.

“I know,” Dylan sighs happily, in a way only a true shit-disturber could. Then, his eyes turn soft. “Thanks Jacky, I love it,” he reaches for Jack’s hand and gives it a squeeze.

He shrugs nonchalantly in response. “It’s no big deal,” he says, belying the way his stomach still clenches in happiness, even after all these years they’ve been together.

“Listen, do you mind watching the kids while I run to the washroom? I’ll be like 2 minutes,” Dylan says in a reassuring tone, mindful of the pure terror eclipsing across Jack’s face.

“Um, fucking  _no_ ,” he emphasizes, looking around the room at the kids that are still face first into their paintings. “Use a bottle or something, what the fuck.”

“Jack,” Dylan snorts, “you’re being ridiculous, I’ll be in the same room, and again, I’ll be gone for 2 minutes.”

“Can’t you just hold it?”

“For another two hours? Instead of being-and I’ll repeat it again- _two_  minutes in the washroom?” Dylan’s trying not to look amused, but Jack can easily see he’s seconds away from laughter. For a matter of pride, Jack waves him off, muttering to himself about unsupportive boyfriends.

Dylan slips away quietly, trying not to attract the attention of the other kids as they work. Jack stands at the front of the classroom, trying to look like he has his shit together, but internally he’s trying not to scream. He’s never been alone with so many little demons in his entire life, and it’s fucking terrifying.

“Mr. Eichs? Where did Mr. Stro go?” A young boy speeds up to him to ask, his eyes round and questioning.

Ugh, he was trying to ignore them until Dylan came back.

“He’s in the washroom, he’ll be back in-“ he glances down to his watch “-1 minute and 23 seconds.”

Not that he’s counting or anything.

“Oh, okay,” the boy sighs, before his eyes light up with mischief just as quickly. Jack doesn’t at all like the implications of that look. “Jessie, ask him!” He shouts, for all of the class to hear.

Jack only has time to inhale one frantic gasp before all of the children are running towards his position at the front of the classroom, perched on top of Dylan’s desk. He’s about to shout Dylan’s name in alarm, and then all of the kids immediately sit down to the floor in front of him, preparing for story time. Another staring match begins, and calling for Dylan is wiped from his mind.

They’ll have another fucking thing coming if they expect him to read Green Eggs and Ham to them.

A boy walks up to him, Jessie he supposes, and stops right in front of his cast. “What’s this? Is it a machine?” He asks as he prods at it. The area’s still tender to the touch, and he’s about two seconds away from kicking the kid with his good foot and telling him to fuck off.

“It’s a cast…” Jack responds, attempting to keep the scorn out of his voice. He’s not sure he succeeds.

He looks up, releasing an audible sigh of relief when he spots Dylan walking up towards the crowd at the front of the classroom with a raised eyebrow. “What’s going on here?” He questions cheerily.

The boy speaks for the both of them. “We asked Mr. Eichel about the machine on his foot, politely, like you told us to.” The boy simpers, and Jack’s lip curls in disdain at the blatant ass-kissing. That’s his job, thank you very much.

“And I told them that it’s not a machine, it’s a cast,” Jack’s unsure why he feels the need to interject, but hey, that’s where he’s at right now.

“Yeah, you can kind of think of it like a machine Jessie,” Dylan says, lowering himself to Jessie’s level. “Mr. Eichel hurt himself playing hockey,”  _like the dumbass he is_ , but that’s left unsaid, “and now the cast is like a machine, taking away his pain and making him feel better.”

Jack opens his mouth to deny the  _fuck_  out of that, because his ankle his still throbbing like a motherfucker, but the look he gets from Dylan is more than enough to keep him silenced.

The kids all nod solemnly in response, and Dylan takes it as an opportunity to start collecting the paintings from each desk. “Because you guys are sitting so nicely, we’ll begin the competition!”

The kids cheer, and Jack smirks thinking about how much Bashira’s painting, under his guidance, will smash the others out of the park.

 

\-----/-----

 

Shithead wins for their group.

Fucking shithead and his stupid fucking painting.

Seriously, how does his half-assed macaroni painting of a horse (it looks absolutely nothing like a horse by the way,) beat their hockey inspired masterpiece? He’s fucking fuming, and by the infuriating smirk on Dylan’s stupid face, he knows it too.

He looks over to Bashira, expecting her to be just as mad as he is, but instead she’s giggling quietly with another girl. He’s tempted to snap to get her attention, and fume over their loss together, but he can tell that Bashira’s too easy-going for that. Not everyone has the competitive drive to become a professional athlete, he haughtily thinks to himself.

Soon after, they’re packing up their stuff to the horrible ‘clean up’ song Dylan’s singing completely off-key as he runs around the classroom, and getting ready for their parent’s to pick them up. It’s something Jack never thought would happen. He’s so relieved he’s actually smiling as he tells the kids to hurry up so they can see their parents sooner (but also so that he’s relieved of their presence sooner too.)

There’s a line at the front of the classroom, with each student giving Dylan a hug before they go off running to their parents. He sees some of them eye him thoughtfully, so he makes sure to hang back near the end of the line, not even slightly about hugging those little monsters. He  _knows_  where their hands have been today, despite his best efforts, and doesn’t want any of them to touch him.

“Mr. Eichs?” He looks down to spot Bashira at his crutch-lugging feet, peering up at him innocently.

“Hey Bashira, aren’t you excited to go see your family?” He tries, wondering why she isn’t at the very front of the line, making her escape early.

“They’re my family, they can wait,” she waves the idea off with her hand, and the gesture is so out of character for someone her age that Jack actually laughs. “I wanted to give this to you,” she says kindly, handing over their painting.

He can see her alterations to the painting, a large, oblong heart surrounding the hockey stick and the puck. It adds to the charm of the painting, and Jack, surprisingly, really likes it. He looks up to the top corner, and laughs when he sees who it’s addressed to.

‘ _To Mr. Aiiks, Love Bashira_ ,’ says the note, and Jack smirks at the valiant spelling attempt of his last name.

“Are you sure? Maybe your family might like it,” Jack says, even though his name is plastered all over the top of the painting.

“They don’t love hockey like you do Mr. Eichs, it’s perfect!” She says joyfully.

Which, true. Jack would be hard pressed to find someone that loves hockey as much as he does, NHL players included.

“Well, thank you Bashira, that’s really nice of you,” he says, uncomfortable with all of the sudden fondness for one of the creatures he’s always vowed to hate.

“You’re welcome Mr. Eichs,” she says, waddling towards him. “Hug?”

He still grimaces at the thought, but he allows it because he hasn’t seen Bashira pick her nose once today. He leans down awkwardly with his crutches and embraces the little girl.

“You’ll come back to visit, right?” She questions, her voice muffled with the way she’s cuddled into Jack’s shirt.

“Um, yeah, sure,” he responds, not entirely sure how certain he is of his statement. He’d tolerate seeing Bashira again, because let’s be honest, he’s totally her favourite, but the others…not so much.

“Okay Mr. Eichs, see you soon!” She waves at him before speeding over to Dylan and giving him a hug.

He turns around and lays the painting on one of the desks, smiling at he looks it over. They really did do an awesome job on it.

He feels Dylan’s arms curling around his waist a moment later, and the grounding weight of his body as he leans on Jack’s shoulder. “Thanks again for today, you were wonderful. I owe you big time.”

Jack smirks. “Fucking right you do. Think of anything good?”

“Hmm, a couple of things, but I can definitely tell you they’re not kindergarten friendly,” he says slyly as he presses a long kiss into the sensitive skin of Jack’s neck.

 

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **Extras:**  
>   
>  1\. Bashira told Dylan that she wanted to give her painting to Jack while he was sleeping, and Dylan thought it would be too precious to say no to (bc let's be real, her painting would have won.)  
> 2\. Dylan took a picture of Bashira sleeping beside Jack and was trying not to squeal at the adorableness of it all; it's his new lock screen and he will never change it  
> 3\. Jack keeps in contact with Bashira, and teaches her how to skate once he's cleared to play.  
> 4\. Both paintings stay on the fridge forever, and Jack likes to look at them more than he would ever admit to.  
>   
> Also, I spent way too much time laughing over [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z998PWGXJq0) than I did writing this fic, omg. It's simultaneously the funniest/ the saddest thing I've ever seen, but it's just too gold.  
> 


End file.
